Hamden Hall Country Day School - Perennial Pine Yearbook (New Haven, CT)

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X I've been told that it isn't the wind now but windg It must be that way to be rhymed with confined. And although the reason is out of my mind, It's all in poetic license. Take a word such as hearth and change it to herthg Then rhyme it with anything - girth, birth, or mirth. Though it still seems to be of a much lesser worth, It's yours by poetic license. It's strange that such poets as Byron and Gray Consented to use such a means to convey Poetic thoughts which should have been easy to say. But they had poetic license. Now we struggle with rhyme schemes, meters, and such, Wondering what to say, when, and how much. But And The And And For if in a tight spot, there's one thing we clutch - that's the poetic license. Betty Judd, '42 THE DESTRUCTION OF A SUNDAY DRIVER WITH APOLOGIES TO BYRON Cadillac roared down like a wolf on the fold, its fenders were crumpled although they weren't the sheen of the paint was a sad thing to see, the last close escape had involved a large tree. old Like a cyclone he tore in his shiny machineg That flash in his glory at sunset was seen. Like a cyclone exhausted, its fury all spent, That flash on the morrow lay battered and bent. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of that flash as he passed. For at eighty he found that the curve was too sharp, Though he's dead we are sure he's not playing a harp. And there lay the car with its fenders all smashed, Both the headlights in splinters, the body quite mashed But Was And For the worst thing of all in this bad accident the four blown-out tires, o'er their loss we lament there lay the menace distorted and pale, another wild driver the end of the trail. And though the First Aid Corps would not give up hope, It was plain he had come to the end of his rope. Now the drivers on Sunday are loud in their joy, For no more would that madman their safety destroy. Only one in the world did his passing dismayg 'Twas the dealer who'd lent him the car for the day. Martha May, '42

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NOU'S-1.331 EES Dans la salle d'assemblie, hier apres-midi, Les tireurs d'armes, on les introduit, En donnant leur trophee a l'ecole, Dbnt, c'est sur, le monde est folle. Mais je pense ici que les tireurs Doivent etre depeintes avec plus de feu. Ainsi je tacherai do le faire maintenant, Et les vciei, comme, je pense, elles sont. Uno, la capltaine, c'est Eleanor Steffen, Qui guaranbit a tirer leur sang. Son degagcment, sa botte si vite, Toujours forcent sen opposante a la fuite, Secundo, c est Marte, l'orguei1 des Mais, Qui deconoerte tous avec son doublet, Sa parade est forte, sa riposte si bonne Que pour tous qu'elle bat, le gong sonne, Tertio est Barbara, l'espere de l'attelage. Elle combat tout le temps avec beaucoup de courage. Et enfin il y a moi, avec une double Coupes, Infaillible, jlespere car c'est tout ce que J'ai. Ici nous semmes. Les eleves de 1'escrime, Tirant nos opees pour gagner 1'estime. Ibis pour la victoire, atteinte sans alarmes, Merci h Papa, notre maitre d'armes. Elizabeth '42 AU POINT DU JOUR La lune descend lentement sous l'horizon a l'ouest, Les etoiles deviennent ales et puis disparaissent. Les oiseaux oommencent chercher leurs dejeuners Et leurs gazouillements cassent le silence celeste. Helene '42 Sonnet a la Grammaire Je m'appel1e Hartheg je vais bien. Voila son livre, voici le mien. C'est aujourd'hui le vingt-trois aout, If fait beau ce matin. Que faites-vous? J'ai dix-sept ans et elle a froid, La cloche a sonne, n'est-ce pas? La table verte, tu es, il est. Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous plait. Je me leve, elle s'assied. Fermez la portel oh est la craie? Devant la chaise, derriere le pupitre. C'est maintenaut trois heures moins huit. Elle et moi sent allees hier soir. Pardonnezsmoi, merci, au revoir. Larthe '42